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gondolas were swiftly gliding, quivered another city, the magic reflection
of the one beneath them.

They gazed on the scene in silence, till the grey twilight came on.

"Now, George! it is getting late," said Sir Henry. "I wonder whether we
could find some old mariner, who could give us a chaunt from Tasso?"

Descending from the Campanile, Sir Henry made enquiries on the quay, and
with some difficulty found gondoliers, who could still recite from their
favourite bard.

Engaging a couple of boats, and placing a singer in each, the brothers
were rowed down the Canale Giudecca - skirted many of the small islands,
studding the lagoons; and proceeded towards the Adriatic.

Gradually the boats parted company, and just as Sir Henry was about to
speak, thinking there might be a mistake as to the directions; the
gondolier in the other boat commenced his song, - its deep bass mellowed by
distance, and the intervening waves. The sound was electric.

It was so exquisitely appropriate to the scene, and harmonised so
admirably, with the associations which Venice is apt to awaken, that one
longed to be able to embody that fleeting sound - to renew its magic
influence in after years. The pen may depict man's stormy feelings: the
sensitive caprice of woman: - the most vivid tints may be imitated on the
glowing canvas: - the inspired marble may realise our every idea of the
beauty of form: - a scroll may give us at will, the divine inspiration, of
Handel: - but there are sounds, as there are subtle thoughts, which, away
from the scenes, where they have charmed us, can never delight us more.

It was not until the second boatman answered the song, that the brothers
felt how little the charm lay, in the voice of the gondolier, and that,
heard nearer, the sounds were harsh and inharmonious.

They recited the death of Clorinda; the one renewing the stanza, whenever
there was a momentary forgetfulness on the part of the other.

The clock of St. Mark had struck twelve, before the travellers had reached
the hotel. George had not complained of fatigue, during a day which even
Sir Henry thought a trying one; and the latter was willing to hope that
his strength was now increasing.

Their first design had been to proceed though Switzerland, resting for
some time at Geneva. Their plans were now changed, and Sir Henry Belme
determined, that their homeward route should be through the Tyrol and
Bavaria, and eventually down the Rhine.

He considered that the water carriage, and the very scenes themselves,
might prove beneficial to the invalid.

Thompson was sent over to Mestré, to inform Pietro; and they prepared to
take their departure.

"You have been better in Venice," said Sir Henry, as they entered the
gondola, that was to bear them from the city. "God grant that you may long
remain so!"

George shook his head doubtingly.

"My illness, Henry, is not of the frame alone, although that is fragile
and shattered.

"The body lingers on without suffering; but the mind - a very bright sword
in a worthless sheath - is forcing its way through. Some feelings must
remain to the last - gratitude to you - love to dear Emily! Acmé, wife of my
bosom! when may I join you?"

Chapter IX.


"Oh there is sweetness in the mountain air,
And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share."

Inspruck! a thousand recollections flash across us, as we pronounce the

We were there at a memorable period; when the body of the hero of the
Tyrol - the brave, the simple-minded Anderl Hofer - was removed from Mantua,
where he so nobly met a patriot's death, to the capital of the country,
which he had so gallantly defended.

The event was one, that could not fail to be impressive; and to us it was
doubly so, for that very period formed an epoch in our lives.

We had lost! we had suffered! we had mourned! Our mind's strength was
shook. Ordinary remedies were worse than futile.

We threw ourselves into the heart of the Tyrol, and became resigned if
not happy.

Romantic country! did not duty whisper otherwise, how would we fly to thy
rugged mountains, and find in the kindly virtues of thine inhabitants,
wherewithal to banish misanthropy, and it may be purchase oblivion.

Noble land! where the chief in his hall - the peasant in his hut - alike
open their arms with sheltering hospitality, to welcome the
stranger - where kindness springs from the heart, and dreams not of sordid
gain - where courtesy attends superior rank, without question, but without
debasement - where the men are valiant, the women virtuous - where it needed
but a few home-spun heroes - an innkeeper and a friar - to rouse up to arms
an entire population, and in a brief space to drive back the Gallic
foeman! Oh! how do we revert with choking sense of gratitude, to the years
we have spent in thy bosom!

Oh! would that we were again treading the mountain's summit - the rifle
our comrade - and a rude countryman, our guide and our companion.

In vain! in vain! the net of circumstance is over us!

We may struggle! but cannot escape from its close meshes.

We have said that we were at Inspruck at this period.

It was our purpose, on the following morning, to take our departure.

With renewed health, and nerves rebraced, we hoped to combat successfully,
a world that had already stung us.

There was a group near the golden-roofed palace, that attracted our
attention. It consisted of a father and his five sons.

They were dressed in the costume of the country; wearing a tapering
hat, with black ribbons and feather - a short green jerkin - a red vest
surmounted by broad green braces - and short boots tightly laced to
the ancle.

They formed a picture of free mountaineers.

We left our lodging, and passed them irresolutely twice or thrice.

The old man took off his hat to the stranger.

"Sir! I am of Sand, in Passeyer.

"Anderl Hofer was my schoolfellow; and these are my boys, whom I have
brought to see all that remains of him. Oh! Sir! they did not conquer him,
although the murderers shot him on the bastion; but, as he wrote to
Pulher - _his_ friend and mine - it was indeed 'in the name, and by the help
of the Lord, that he undertook the voyage,'"

We paced through the city sorrowfully. It was night, as we passed by the
church of the Holy Cross.

Solemn music there arrested our footsteps; and we remembered, that high
mass would that night be performed, for the soul of the deceased patriot.

We entered, and drew near the mausoleum of Maximilian the First: - leaning
against a colossal statue in bronze, and fixing our eyes on a bas relief
on the tomb: one of twenty-four tablets, wrought from Carrara's whitest
marble, by the unrivalled hand of Colin of Malines!

One blaze of glory enveloped the grand altar: - vapours of incense floated
above: - and the music! oh it went to the soul!

Down! down knelt the assembled throng!

Our mind had been previously attuned to melancholy; it now reeled under
its oppression.

We looked around with tearful eye. Old Theodoric of the Goths seemed to
frown from his pedestal.

We turned to the statue against which we had leant.

It was that of a youthful and sinewy warrior.

We read its inscription.

Artur, Konig Von England

"Ah! hast _thou_ too thy representative, my country?"

We looked around once more.

The congregation were prostrate before the mysterious Host; and we alone
stood up, gazing with profound awe and reverence on the mystic rite.

The rough caps of the women almost hid their fair brows. In the upturned
features of the men, what a manly, yet what a devout expression reigned!

Melodiously did the strains proceed from the brazen-balustraded
orchestra; while sweet young girls smiled in the chapel of silver, as
they turned to Heaven their deeply-fringed eyes, and invoked pardon for
their sins.

Alas! alas! that such as these _should_ err, even in thought! that our
feelings should so often mislead us, - that our very refinement, should
bring temptation in its train, - and our fervent enthusiasm, but too
frequently terminate in vice and crime!

Our whole soul was unmanned! and well do we remember the morbid prayer,
that we that night offered to the throne of mercy.

"Pity us! pity us! Creator of all!

"With thousands around, who love - who reverence - whose hearts, in unison
with ours, tremble at death, yet sigh for eternity; - who gaze with eye
aspiring, although dazzled - as, the curtain of futurity uplifted, fancy
revels in the glorious visions of beatitude: - even here, oh God! hear our
prayer and pity us!

"We are moulded, though faintly, in an angel's form. Endow us with an
angel's principles. For ever hush the impure swellings of passion! lull
the stormy tide of contending emotions! let not circumstances overwhelm!

"Receive our past griefs: the griefs of manhood, engrafted on youth; accept
these tears, falling fast and bitterly! take them as past atonement, - as
mute witnesses that we feel: - that reason slumbers not, although passion
may mislead: - that gilded temptation may overcome, and gorgeous pleasure
intoxicate: - but that sincere repentance, and bitter remorse, are
visitants too.

"Oh guide and pity us!"

A cheerless dawn was breaking, and a thick damp mist was lazily hanging on
the water's surface, as our travellers waved the hand to Venice.

"Fare thee well!" said George, as he rose in the gondola to catch a last
glimpse of the Piazzetta, "sea girt city! decayed memorial of patrician
splendour, and plebeian debasement! of national glory, blended with
individual degradation! - fallen art thou, but fair! It was not with
freshness of heart, I reached thee: - I dwelt not in thee, with that
jocund spirit, whose every working or gives the lip a smile, or moistens
the eye of feeling with a tear.

"Sad were my emotions! but sadder still, as I recede from thy shores, bound
on a distant pilgrimage. Acmé! dear Acmé! would I were with thee!"

Passing through Treviso, they stopped at Castel Franco, which presents one
of the best specimens of an Italian town, and Italian peasantry, that a
stranger can meet with.

At Bassano, they failed not to visit the Municipal Hall, where are the
principal pictures of Giacomo da Ponte, called after his native town.

His style is peculiar.

His pictures are dark to an excess, with here and there a vivid light,
introduced with wonderful effect.

From this town, the ascent of the mountains towards Ospedale is commenced;
and the route is one full of interest.

On the right, lay a low range of country, adorned with vineyards; beyond
which, the mountains rose in a precipitous ridge, and closed the scene

The Brenta was then reached, and continued to flow parallel with the road,
as far as eye could extend.

Farther advanced, the mountains presented a landscape more varied: - _here_
chequered with hamlets, whose church hells re-echoed in mellow harmony:
there - the only break to their majesty, being the rush of the river, as it
formed rolling cascades in its rapid route; or beat in sparkling foam,
against the large jagged rocks, which opposed its progress.

At one while, came shooting down the stream, some large raft of timber,
manned by adventurous navigators, who, with graceful dexterity, guided
their rough bark, clear of the steep banks, and frequent fragments of
rock; - at another - as if to mark a road little frequented, a sharp turn
would bring them on some sandalled damsel, sitting by the road side,
adjusting her ringlets. Detected in her toilet, there was a mixture of
frankness and modesty, in the way in which she would turn away a blushing
face, yet neglect not, with native courtesy, to incline the head, and
wave the sun-burnt hand.

From Ospedale, nearing the bold castle of Pergini, which effectually
commands the pass; the travellers descended through regions of beauty, to
the ancient Tridentum of Council celebrity.

The metal roof of its Duomo was glittering in the sunshine; and the Adige
was swiftly sweeping by its fortified walls.

Leaving Trent, they reached San Michele, nominally the last Italian town
on the frontier; but the German language had already prepared them for a
change of country.

The road continued to wind by the Adige, and passing through Lavis, and
Bronzoli, the brothers halted for the night at Botzen, a clean German
town, watered by the Eisach.

The following day's journey, was one that few can take, and deem their
time misspent.

Mossy cliffs - flowing cascades - "chiefless castles breaking stern
farewells" - all these were met, and met again, as through Brixen, they
reached the village of Mülks.

They had intended to have continued their route; but on drawing up at the
post-house, were so struck with the gaiety of the scene, that they
determined to remain for the night.

Immediately in rear of the small garden of the inn, and with a gentle
slope upwards, a wide piece of meadow land extended. On its brow, was
pitched a tent, or rather, a many-coloured awning; and, beside it, a pole
adorned with flags. This was the station for expert riflemen, who aimed in
succession at a fluttering bird, held by a silken cord.

The sloping bank of the hill was covered with spectators.

Age looked on with sadness, and mourned for departed manhood - youth with
envy, and sighed for its arrival.

After seeing their bedrooms, George leant on Henry's arm, and, crossing
the garden, they took a by-path, which led towards the tent.

The strangers were received with respect and cordiality.

Seats were brought, and placed near the scene of contest.

The trial of skill over, the victor took advantage, of his right, and
selected his partner from the fairest of the peasant girls.

Shrill pipes struck up a waltz - a little blind boy accompanied these on a
mandolin - and in a brief space, the hill's flat summit was swarming with
laughing dancers.

Nor was youth alone enlisted in Terpsichore's service.

The mother joined in the same dance with the daughter; and not
unfrequently tripped with foot as light.

Twilight came on, and the patriarchs of the village, and with them our
travellers, adjourned to the inn.

The matrons led away their reluctant charges, and the youth of the village
alone protracted the revels.

The brothers seated themselves at a separate table, and watched the
village supper party, with some interest.

Bowls of thick soup, with fish swimming in butter, and fruit floating in
cream, were successively placed in the middle of the table.

Each old man produced his family spoon, and helped himself with primitive
simplicity: - then lighted his pipe, and told his long tale, till he had
exhausted himself and his hearers.

Nor must we forget the comely waiter.

A bunch of keys hanging on one side, - a large leathern purse on the
other - with a long boddice, and something like a hoop - she really
resembled, save that her costume was more homely, one of the portraits
of Vandyke.

The brothers left Mülks by sunrise, and were not long, ere they reached
the summit of the Brenner, the loftiest point of the Tyrol.

From the beautiful town of Gries, embosomed in the deep valley, until they
trod the steep Steinach, the mountain scenery at each step become more
interesting. The road was cut on the face of a mountain. On one side,
frowned the mountain's dark slope; on the other, lay a deep precipice,
down which the eye fearfully gazed, and saw naught but the dark fir trees
far far beneath. Dividing that dense wood, a small stream, entangled in
the dark ravine, glided on in graceful windings, and looked more silvery
from its contrast with the sombre forest.

At the Steinach Pietro pulled up, to show the travellers the capital
of the Tyrol, and to point in the distance to Hall, famous for its
salt works.

Casting a hasty glance, on the romantic vale beneath them: - the fairest
and most extensive in the northern recesses of the Alps, Sir Henry desired
his driver to continue his journey.

They rapidly descended, and passing by the column, commemorative of the
repulse of the French and Bavarian armies, soon found themselves the
inmates of an hotel in Inspruck.

Chapter X.

The Students' Stories.

"The lilacs, where the robins built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day -
_The tree_ is living yet."

At Inspruck, Delmé had the advantage of a zealous, if not an appropriate
guide, in the red-faced landlord of the hotel, whose youth had been passed
in stirring times, which had more than once, required the aid of his arm,
and which promised to tax his tongue, to the last day of his life.

He knew all the heroes of the Tyrolese revolution - if revolution it can be
called - and had his tale to tell of each.

He had got drunk with Hofer, - had visited Joseph Speckbacker, when hid in
his own stable, - and had confessed more than once to Haspinger, the
fighting Capuchin.

His stories were very characteristic; and, if they did not breathe all the
poetry of patriotism, were at least honest versions, of exploits performed
in as pure and disinterested a spirit, as any that have ever graced the
sacred name of Liberty.

After seeing all its sights, and making an excursion to some glaciers in
its neighbourhood, Delmé and George left the capital of the Tyrol, to
proceed by easy stages to Munich.

In the first day's route, they made the passage of the Zirl, which has
justly been lauded; and Pietro failed not to point to a crucifix, placed
on a jutting rock, which serves to mark the site of Maximilian's cave.

The travellers took a somewhat late breakfast, at the guitar-making
Mittelwald, where chance detained them later than usual. They were still
at some distance from their sleeping place, the hamlet of Wallensee, when
the rich hues of sunset warned Pietro, that if he would not be benighted,
he must urge on his jaded horses.

The sun's decline was glorious. For a time, vivid streaks of crimson and
of gold, crowned the summits of the heaving purple mountains. Gradually,
these streaks became fainter, and died away, and rolling, slate-coloured
clouds, hung heavily in the west.

The scene and the air seemed to turn on a sudden, both cold and grey; and,
as the road wound through umbrageous forests of pine, night came abruptly
upon them; and it was a relief to the eye, to note the many bright stars,
as they shone above the tops of the lofty trees.

A boding stillness reigned, on which the sound of their carriage wheels
ungratefully broke. The rustling of each individual bough had an
intonation of its own; and the deep notes of the woodman, endeavouring to
forget the thrilling legends of his land, mingled fitfully with the hollow
gusts, which came moaning through the leafless branches below.

Hist! can it be the boisterous revel of the _forst geister_, that meets
his ear? or is it but the chirp of insects, replying from brake to

Woodman! stay not thy carol!

Yon sound _may_ be the wild laugh of the Holz König! Better for thee, to
deem it the whine of thine own dog, looking from the cottage door, and
awaiting but thy presence, to share in the homely meal.

Arrived on the summit of the hill, the lights of the hamlet at length
glistened beneath them. The tired steeds, as if aware of the near
termination of their labours, shook their rough manes, and jingled their
bells in gladness.

An abrupt descent - and they halted, at the inn facing the lake.

And here may we notice, that it has been a source of wonder to us, that
English tourists, whose ubiquity is great, have not oftener been seen
straying, by the side of the lake of Wallensee.

A sweeter spot exists not; - whether we rove by its margin, and perpetrate
a sonnet; limn some graceful tree, hanging over its waters; or gaze on its
unruffled surface, and, noting its aspect so serene, preach from that
placid text, peace to the wearied breast.

They were shown into a room in the inn, already thronged with strangers.
These were students on their way to Heidelberg.

They were sitting round a table, almost enveloped in smoke; and were
hymning praises to their loved companion - beer.

As being in harmony with the moustaches, beard, and bandit
propensities - which true bürschen delight to cultivate - they received
the strangers with an unfriendly stare, and continued to vociferate
their chorus.

Sir Henry, a little dismayed at the prospect before them, called for the
landlord and his bill of fare; and had the pleasure of discovering, that
the provisions had been consumed, and that two hours would elapse, before
more could be procured.

At this announcement, Delmé looked somewhat blank. One of the students,
observing this, approached, and apologising, in English, for their
voracity, commenced conversing with the landlord, as to the best course to
be pursued towards obtaining supper.

His comrades, seeing one of their number speaking with the travellers,
threw off some part of their reserve, and made way for them at the table.

George and Henry accepted the proffered seats, although they declined
joining the drinking party.

The students, however, did not appear at ease. As if to relieve their
embarrassment, one of them addressed the young man, with whom Sir Henry
had conversed.

"Carl! it is your turn now! if you have not a song, we must have an
original story."

Carl at once complied, and related the following.

The First Story.

Perhaps some of you remember Fritz Hartmann and his friend Leichtberg.
They were the founders of the last new liberty club, and were famous at

These patriots became officers of the Imperial Guard, and at Vienna were
soon known for their friendship and their gallantries.

Fritz had much sentiment and imagination; but some how or other, this did
not preserve him from inconstancy.

If he was always kind and gentle, he was not always faithful.

His old college chums had the privilege of joking him on these subjects;
and we always did so without mercy. Fritz would sometimes combat our
assertions, but they ordinarily made him laugh so much, that a stranger
would have deemed he assented to their truth.

One night after the opera, the friends supped together at Fritz's.

I was of the party, and brought for my share a few bottles of
Johannisberg, that had been sent me by my uncle from the last vintage.
Over these we got more than usually merry, and sang all the songs and
choruses of Mother Heidelberg, till the small hours arrived. The sitting
room we were in, communicated on one side with the bedroom; - on the other,
with a little closet, containing nothing but some old trunks.

This last was closed, but there was a small aperture in the door, over
which was a slight iron lattice work.

The officer who had last tenanted Fritz's quarters, had kept pheasants
there, and had had this made on purpose.

After one of our songs, Leichtberg attacked Fritz on the old score.

"Fritz! you very Werter of sentiment! I was amazed to see you with no
loves to-night at the opera. Where is the widow with sandy hair? or the
actress who gave your _kirschenwasser_ such a benefit? where our
sallow-faced friend? or more than all, where may the fair Pole be who
sells such charming fruit? Fritz! Fritz! your sudden attachment to grapes
is too ominous."

"Come, Leichtberg!" said Hartmann, laughing, "this is really not fair. Do
you know I think myself very constant, and as to the Pole, I have thought
of little else for these three months."

"Not so fast! not so fast! Master Hartmann. Was it not on Wednesday week I
met you arm in arm with the actress? Were you not waltzing with the widow
at the Tivoli? have you not" -

"Come, come!" said Fritz, reddening, "let us say no more. I confess to
having made a fool of myself with the actress, but she begged and prayed
to see me once more, ere we parted for ever. With this exception - - "

"Yes, yes!" interrupted Leichtberg, "I know you, Master Fritz, and all
your evil doings. Have you heard of our Polish affaire de coeur, Carl?",
and he turned to me.

"No!" replied I, "let me hear it."

"Well, you must know that a certain friend of ours is very economical, and
markets for himself. He bargains for fruit and flowers with the peasant
girls, and the prettiest always get his orders, and bring up their
baskets, and - we will say no more. Well! our friend meets a foreign face,
dark eye - Greek contour - and figure indescribable. She brings him home her
well arranged bouquets. He swears her lips are redder than her roses - her
brow whiter than lilies - and her breath - which he stoops to inhale - far
sweeter than her jasmines. To his amazement, the young flower girl sees no

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